Photography
by BeyondCanon
Summary: [Prompt Challenge] Quinn is a photographer. For one afternoon, Rachel is her model.
1. Photography

Several weeks ago I started a** prompt challenge** on my Tumblr. You drop me a prompt on my ask, I'll fill it if I'm seduced by it.

A few of those will be posted here. This is one of them.

* * *

**PHOTOGRAPHY**

Rachel hasn't crossed your mind in years.

Glee seems to be worlds away now. You've remade yourself, and you left Lima behind.

But Lima comes back; your past always catches up.

You stare at the message on your phone, your assistant's list of actresses chosen for your next photo shoot and Rachel is there.

You wonder if it's too late to give up, to tell Vogue you don't want it anymore. Your Urban Rhythms exposition is doing just fine, on national tour, you're booked for the semester already; you don't need the exposure of re-doing your own work with famous Hollywood people, you can survive without it.

But it's Vogue, and you're also a woman of word.

You sigh and confirm the schedule.

—-

Michael Fassbender becomes The Wait, leaning against the back of an alley. Meryl Streep is Abandonment, sitting alone on a park bench at night. Lupita Nyong'o turns into Scream, seen from outside a window. Joaquin Phoenix, inside a moving bus, becomes Hope.

It's all fine as long as it's everyone else.

You're not scared of Hollywood. They seem to enjoy how you have no fucks to give about them, and more than a few have flirted with you the last couple years.

You're far from being an uptight doll now.

—-

You watch Rachel from a distance, first.

You have wondered about this moment, how it would be to meet again reborn from the ashes; about the gaps and silences between you and if you'd be able to reconnect.

Rachel's hair is a little shorter, and her face is a little thinner, very fitting with the 30-something woman she is now.

Rachel laughs at something your assistant has said, and her laugh is just the same: like a breath of fresh air.

No wonder she's Hollywood's sweetheart.

—-

She knows her photographer is Quinn, obviously.

What she is not expecting is… this.

She locks eyes with Quinn from a distance, and she's thankful for the opportunity it gives her to take a good, long look.

Quinn's wearing tight jeans, black boots, and a loose, sleeveless top with a cleavage both deep and shameless. Quinn's wearing her hair short and spiked, a variation from her Nationals haircut all those years back.

Quinn's got a colorful tattoo, like watercolor painting, on her shoulder, going down some of her arm.

Quinn's got red lipstick, bright and inviting, and she's smirking at Rachel.

Quinn is right in front of Rachel, and she still smells like sandalwood.

"Oh. My. God." Rachel says, getting up from the couch and pulling Quinn in for a hug.

—-

Rachel grabs your hand and pulls you in for a long hug.

You remain shocked for a moment before you remember to hug her back. She's changed her perfume, but it's still delicious, and she's still the perfect fit when she's pressed against you.

You hold her tight against you, arms around her waist; she's got her arms around your neck, a hand sinking in your hair.

This is closer than it should be, and you haven't seen each other in a decade, but you hide your face in her neck and you take a deep breath anyway. You close your eyes.

You have missed her.

—-

Quinn has got Rachel shivering, her skin crawling. God, she's missed Quinn. It's frustrating how life takes you apart from people you swore would always be there.

She grabs Quinn hair to makes sure she is really there, flesh and bone. "You look stunning," she whispers, because she isn't blind.

Quinn breaks the hug enough to look in Rachel's eyes; her hands are still on the small of Rachel's back, and their hips are still very much joined. "I bet you didn't see it coming," she says with a smirk.

"I did not you had it in you," Rachel answers, tracing Quinn's tattoo, fascinated by it.

She can't explain this need to touch Quinn.

—-

Your cheeks feel warm, and Rachel is a sight for sore eyes.

You feel your chest tighten and expand, like it does every time you've ever seen her.

If you weren't so confused back then… Maybe things would have turned out a little different.

"Let's begin, shall we?" You ask her. You don't know who reaches for who, but your hands remain intertwined as you walk towards the scenario. "You're going to be Pulse. It's a series of photos, so it's going to take more than you're probably used to."

She nods. You make her stand on a black, wet scenario, droplets of water running down the fake walls. You check the original picture on your Mac to make sure your assistant has got the angle right.

"Give me energy, Rachel." You grab your camera and place its leather strap around your neck. "Soon you'll be doing break dancing, so give me danger and energy."

—-

Rachel stares into the camera and lets Quinn do her thing.

Quinn had always been so gorgeous and unattainable, tripping into mistakes everyone could see coming, pushing people away.

Maybe Glee had been training wheels for everyone else, too, until they learned to live in their own skin.

Quinn's assistant controls the lighting on the back and makes some annotations. Quinn kneels on the ground, camera clicking, and Rachel gives her strong and dangerous.

It's exhilarating to have Quinn's attention like this. How many times could Rachel say Quinn had stopped at looked at her and only her?

—-

The dancers arrive and you take a breath of relief.

It's not just you and Rachel anymore.

You and your assistant guide the four dancers into their first positions. You can't avoid touching Rachel's shoulder to bring her to the center of the circle, her elbow to adjust her arm. You catch your breath.

The four men start dancing around Rachel as you take pictures in a frenzy. You repeat the process when you're outside the circle; Rachel's gaze follows you.

You allow them to take a quick break, stretch themselves. You've lost notion of time, but they deserve a break before the next photo. "You're doing great," you whisper in Rachel's ear.

—-

Quinn's whispering does things.

She takes a deep breath before sitting on the couch. She doesn't know why it means so much to her.

Quinn gives water to the sweaty dancers, chatting with them; Rachel looks at her and tries to understand.

Maybe she's still longing for Quinn's approval, for any kindness she might throw Rachel's way.

Rachel bites her lip as she stares. Time has done wonders to Quinn.

—-

You catch Rachel staring right at you.

You're in the middle of a sentence; you clear your throat before proceeding.

You need to put this behind. It's just an afternoon, it's just a job. You've got your life, and it doesn't have Rachel in it.

You carry the tray with empty glasses to the table by the left wall. Before you turn back, you feel someone behind you; you just know it's Rachel.

"You have another one," she says, touching where your back meets your neck.

Her thumb runs on your skin and you place your hands on the table, looking down, to let her touch everything she wants. "I do," you say quietly.

She pulls your top down with one hand, the other palming the small of your back. You try to keep your thoughts clean.

"It is a bird?" She leans in some more; you can feel her warmth right behind you. "It's beautiful."

"Thank you," you answer, a little breathless. You don't say the tattoo means freedom.

—-

Rachel knows she's crossing a line.

She doesn't know how to stop it. Seeing Quinn is like remembering, like waking up.

She wishes she could have witnessed Quinn become this amazing woman.

After they resume the shoot, most of the work is hers. She likes how Quinn holds her waist and touches her legs to adjust her pose, the focused face she makes as she touches Rachel gently.

It's supposed to be a handstand caught midair.

Quinn's biceps are toned and strong as she shows Rachel the pose.

She palms Rachel's inner thigh to raise it higher, holds Rachel's chin to make her stare to the right side – it's a strenuous position, but Rachel works it the best she can.

It's the shortest session, because Rachel cannot breakdance and she can go only so far in faking it.

Quinn declares it over, congratulating everyone, and stretches a hand to Rachel.

She pulls Rachel up swiftly, giving her the smile of a work well done. Rachel bumps against her, but Quinn's hand on her waist give her steady ground.

Quinn's sandalwood scent is everywhere; Rachel feels dizzy.

—-

The sun is setting; the studio's large windows show a vision of red.

You and your assistant look the photos on the computer's large screen. They still need Photoshop retouching, of course, but there are several great ones in this bunch.

You're very satisfied.

Rachel comes to you, now dressed as herself in a tight black dress and black pumps. Your assistant looks at the two of you and understands the cue to leave.

It's just you and Rachel.

She grabs her handbag. "Can I call you sometime?"

"Of course." You nod, resting against the window.

She comes closer. "You don't have, if you don't want to."

You smile and hold her hand. "Don't worry."

You really, really want to kiss her.

—-

Rachel doesn't know why she feels so tentative.

She doesn't know anything about Quinn's life. She may just fade away the second Rachel walks through the door, and they might never see each other again.

Quinn squeezes Rachel's hand. "The exposition should arrive here in New York in about a month. I'll be at the opening."

Rachel smiles. "I'll be there."

"If you're ever in San Francisco or London, hit me up." She squeezes Rachel's hand again and lets it go.

Rachel's still hesitant.

Quinn grabs her messenger bag, a leather piece cracked from the use, and walks them out.

—-

You stand in front of the building, unsure of what to say.

Luckily, this photo shoot has been kept a secret and there's no paparazzi around.

Rachel looks at you, searching for something to say. You hold back from inviting her to dinner. The expectation of something that's not going to happen will torture you; you know it.

She can't offer what you want. "I'll see you around, then," you say.

She's still looking at you, still expecting. She holds on to the hem of your shirt. You look at her hand and you look at her lips as she licks them.

You'd be kissing her if you just leaned in.


	2. Opening

**Important:** This is **not** an official multichapter. Per the rules of my prompt challenge, I write one glimpse within a prompt-verse. This story got my brains and demanded more. Consider those several one-shots within the same verse.

* * *

**OPENING**

The process of going through Rachel's photos is excruciating.

She's out of your grasp, you try to remember.

She's also the right kind of stunning.

When the Vogue team sends the final version, Rachel looks perfect, skin smooth as marble, eyes bright and focused.

You can't really stop yourself when you mail them to her.

—

She gets home and there's a package for her.

The sound of the package being ripped apart is the only sound in her trendy, empty apartment.

Rachel smiles, placing both hands on her dinner table as she stares at herself in black and white.

She's never looked like this before, through Quinn's eyes. She's focus and strength and she looks gorgeous.

_Consider it a late Christmas gift,_ the note says, with an invitation to the Urban Rhythms exposition in NY.

There's a part of her deeply satisfied that Quinn has taken the time to remember her.

—

It's all ritual by now.

You're used to the media buzz, to the glass of white wine resting on your left hand as you swim through the crowd and greet your colleagues, collectors, and answers questions from the local press.

You keep your heart still, refusing to scan the room for Rachel.

—

Quinn is still the most fascinating person in the room.

Rachel sees how she commands attention, how she smiles the right smile, how people are drawn to her, the elegance in her black dress shirt and high heels.

She takes advantage of one of the rare moments Quinn's left alone to approach her.

Her hand reaches for Quinn's elbow and runs a soft path to Quinn's shoulder. "Hi," she says, very aware of the twitch on Quinn's arm.

"You made it," Quinn answers with a smile, placing a hand on Rachel's waist.

Rachel can feel its warmth through her own dress; the tip of her tongue darts to moisten her lower lip.

"Of course I did," she says, her entire body turned to Quinn, tuned on her reaction.

"I hope it's not too boring," she says, her eyes still very much locked with Rachel. Her thumb caresses Rachel's hip tenderly, and Rachel is already a little out of breath.

"It's beautiful," she says. Her own hand rests timidly on Quinn's arm, not moving. "Your work is amazing."

Quinn's lips are so very red. "Can I show you around?"

"Please do," Rachel says, intertwining her arm with Quinn's.

—

You know this is wrong.

You should know your boundaries and avoid diving too deep.

But Rachel is there, for you, and she's so beautiful in her black dress, so eager for your attention…

Her short nails scratch your inner forearm as you take her around. You try not to shiver at the contact, to ignore the feeling of your bodies brushing as you walk side by side.

You entertain her with the general concept of that exposition, the need to capture a city of concrete and desolation, how the setting transforms and complements the feeling.

She nods to your words; sometimes her breasts graze your arm when she leans in to take a closer look at some piece.

Your entire body aches in melancholy.

—

She's there when the event is about to end.

She's waiting.

"I thought maybe I could take you to dinner," she tells Quinn, "if you don't have other plans."

Quinn studies her face; it's unsettling. "I don't."

Rachel's heart beats faster.

—

You let Rachel do most of the talking.

There's so much you don't know. Rachel's at the sweet spot of fame, free to do what she chooses and collecting the rewards of a few hit movies and a solid career in Broadway.

Life has found a balance for her.

It makes you happy.

You share dessert with her, enjoying how her lips close around the spoon in delight. You ask if there's someone special – you need to know, you need to be sure, you've heard the gossip – and she shakes her dead.

"I'm too focused on my career," she tells you, and the air hangs suddenly too thick.

You try to think of something to say, but you can't.

"What about you," she asks, her hand brushing against yours on the table. "With your looks there's got to be a line of suitors."

Your breath feels shallow. "I haven't found anyone," you say, because maybe you did and you couldn't realize in time.

You don't want to spoil what little you have now.

—

The waiter asks for her autograph and says his wife thinks Rachel is better than Barbra Streisand.

Rachel smiles, her cheeks warming with Quinn's gaze on her, and she signs her name on a piece of paper.

"You're famous," Quinn teases before finishing her drink.

The waiter leaves the check and takes their plates.

Rachel doesn't want it to be over.

She covers Quinn's hand with hers when he comes back. "My town, my check."

Quinn stares at their joined hands before sighing. "Rachel, really—"

Rachel grabs Quinn's hand and their eyes lock. "You can't stop me."

Quinn's hands are so soft. Rachel regrets having to release them to grab her credit card.

—

You hold your breath.

"I don't want you to leave," Rachel says, standing a little too close to you on the street.

"I'm right here," you say, your chest constricted with the little time there's left and the way she looks at you.

She shakes her head. "You're leaving tomorrow."

Maybe she's a little dizzy from the wine, because she holds your coat and you're almost pressed together.

"I am," you agree softly, your hands in your pockets.

"Come to my place," she asks you, "and we'll have a last drink."

You frown and hesitate; you're afraid of the possibility.

"Please," Rachel whines, and she's flush against you now. You can't think.

—

There's so much to say.

She wants to tell Quinn everything: the feeling of emptiness, the space between her days, the distance.

Quinn shuffles through her LP collection.

She doesn't say it's not really hers. It's got no story.

Her interior decorator chose them.

"Thank you," Quinn says when Rachel gives her a glass of wine.

Quinn obviously chooses jazz, and she obviously knows how to operate the player.

Rachel drinks more out of habit than anything else.

—

It's funny how Rachel lets you get away with everything.

She doesn't even bat an eye when you choose an LP without asking her.

"This is a good one," you hum, shuffling on your feet to the sax.

She kisses you.

She presses her body against yours softly and she kisses you.

You try not to die of shock; it's when her hand rests on your nape, scratching and pulling the soft hair there, that you finally react.

Your lips slide together tentatively, and your hand rest on her waist as she kisses your upper lip, then your bottom lip.

Your breath is shaky – your heart is pounding on your ears – and she nibbles your lip, teeth pulling gently, until your lips part to her and she deepens the kiss.

The hand on the back of your neck becomes a little more forceful, a little more desperate, when her tongue enters your mouth. She finds your tongue and they rub against each other, slick and slow; you moan in her mouth and pull her closer to you.

It's better than you had imagined.

—

It's Rachel who starts and it's Rachel who ruins it.

She bumps against the LP player, and the music comes to a screeching stop.

The kiss breaks spontaneously, and what's left is Quinn and her, staring at each other.

Quinn's lips are sore and red.

The realization of what she's done finally gets to her, and Rachel panics.

She's ruined the evening, their reconnection, she's ruined everything.

She's going to lose Quinn. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

—

Of course she's sorry.

You're not someone to be taken seriously in this, are you? Rachel just got carried away, that's all.

You try to bury your heartbreak. She doesn't need to see it. She doesn't need to know.

"You got carried away." You interrupt her, running a hand through your hair. "It's okay."

It's not.

"Quinn, I—" She tries, still breathless, but you place a hand on her shoulder and she stops talking.

You kiss her forehead. "I should go now."

She doesn't stop you.


	3. Colombia

**COLOMBIA**

She gets on a fucking plane.

It's been too long, and she can't stand it anymore.

She doesn't leave the plane as much as runs from it, jumping in a cab and giving Quinn's address.

She needs answers.

It's a hot night, much too warm for her long-sleeved dress. She wishes she'd checked the weather, that she'd chosen shorts or something, anything that wouldn't leave her sweating like this.

It's too late; it's too damn late.

She rings Quinn's doorbell.

—

Someone's at your door.

One of your friends chooses an upbeat Cumbia as the next song, and you love the African percussion of it. A few others clap excitedly as they run to the middle of the flat to dance.

You like the friends you made here.

You needed the fresh air.

Grabbing another cold as ice beer, you head to the door. It's probably just someone late to the party, anyway, and you give your best welcoming smile as you open the door.

Time freezes, and you can see yourself standing there like the fool you are, staring at Rachel Berry.

"Hi," Rachel tries, eyes scanning your face.

You blink a few times, too confused to feel anything. "You're here."

She nods, shuffling the bag in her hand. "And you're having a party."

You think of how fate works, the turns in your life, and how completely helpless you are. You give a small shrug, masking the emotions trying to surface. "Come and join us, then."

—

It's really a party.

But then again, Quinn was always the perfect host.

The scarce furniture has been rearranged to leave a wide space in the middle of the apartment in lieu of a dance floor. There are chairs and pillows and ottomans on a corner, making a cozy environment for conversation.

There must be at least twenty people there – twenty new people in Quinn's life, twenty people in exchange of her ruining any kind of friendship they could have had.

A beautiful girl, olive skin and long hair, comes to Quinn and envelops her in an easy kiss, hugging Quinn's neck.

A sudden sadness spreads over Rachel's chest, and she's already wishing she had never boarded that plane.

—

You didn't want to see Rachel ever again.

The last thing you wanted was for her to show like this, barging in like she had all the right, like she _belonged_.

You leave your current girlfriend and stop by the fridge to get Rachel some white wine.

You can feel her stare, burning the back of your neck, but you're not really in the mood to go around explaining anything.

"Got you something," you say, giving her the glass and taking a big gulp of your long neck.

She sips her drink in silence, leaning against the wall. She's filled with sadness and doubt, hesitating to tell you something, but you're not going to make it any easier.

Maybe it's the alcohol doing more than softening the edges of your vision, but you sigh and break the silence. "Why are you here, Rachel?"

"I miss you." She doesn't even look in your direction. "I haven't seen you in six months, not since—"

You can't handle it. "We're not talking about that."

She retreats into silence, and it somehow makes you feel small again, like you're still a sophomore who needs to hurt Rachel to feel alive.

The words stumble out of your mouth, out of control. "What were you expecting, really? What do you want from me?"

"I don't know." She looks right into your eyes, piercing. "I don't know, okay?"

She's doing that thing that she does, walking into your personal bubble, and you place a hand on her chest. "Stop it."

You can feel her heart under the heel of your palm, beating as fast as yours, her skin clammy with sweat.

—

She had forgotten how cold Quinn could be.

"I don't want to lose you," she says, placing her hand over Quinn's.

She's doing it wrong again. This is the wrong place and the wrong moment; it isn't supposed to be in the middle of a Colombian house party at 2am with Quinn's girlfriend staring right at them.

"You never had me," Quinn answers flatly, eyes empty of emotion, and takes her hand away.

It feels too much like a breakup, and tears begin to pool at the corner of Rachel's eyes.

—

You're not the villain.

You're the second choice, the garbage, and you're so mad at Rachel's arrogance, at her assumption she should always get what she wants – you hold her arm and you take her outside, blood boiling in anger.

The old staircase creaks and whines under your heavy steps, and you hope the few people that live in that building are not with their ears glued to the wall, waiting for the gossip.

You're so angry at her for not choosing you, angry with her for not letting you get away, making you feel like you're the bad guy in this – you shove her against the wall outside, hard and unnecessary.

"Has it not occurred to you that if I _wanted_ to talk to you I would have answered your calls? I wouldn't have picked a project in the middle of fucking _Colombia_, for the love of God?"

She's full on crying now, grabbing your arm. "Quinn, please—"

"I need fucking space, Rachel." You sneer, because you _hate_ her, you _despise_ her self-righteousness. "I don't work under your schedule."

That's it, congratulations; you're still the same person as 15 years ago and you still follow the same hurtful rules.

No one ever changes, much less you.

—

Her fingers curl around Quinn's arm, refusing to let her go.

Her back aches with the impact of being thrown, but she doesn't mind. She'll let Quinn do whatever she wants, if it makes her feel better. "I don't understand, I thought we were—"

"We're nothing," Quinn interrupts, freeing her arm from Rachel's grasp. "We were never anything."

It stings, burning deep in Rachel's chest. They had been friends, once, and Quinn used to listen and touch her shoulder gently, because Quinn _understood_ what it felt like.

"Stop lying!" She shoves Quinn back, her voice one breath short of a yell. "We were friends, we had something—"

Quinn's hands push her shoulders back, until she's against the rough wall one more time. She winces in pain, trying to break free.

Quinn's mouth forms a straight line, her eyes intense. "We were never friends."

Rachel grabs Quinn's shirt and pulls her close.

—

You kiss Rachel because you can't stand it anymore.

You take over her mouth forcibly, a hand on her throat as the other squeezes her waist, and it's so maddening when she just complies, lets you do what you want.

Your tongue takes over her mouth, licking her teeth, the roof of her mouth, before rubbing against Rachel's tongue, wet and desperate. She whimpers when the hand on her throat presses down some more, hanging on to you and ruining your shirt.

You're crazy, delirious, you're dreaming; this can't be happening.

You want to take her, _ruin _her, and your bite on her lower lip is more painful than pleasant; she answers by wrapping one leg around you to have you closer. You kiss her again, all teeth and bite, releasing her throat to pull her hair because God, she tastes amazing.

"Fuck me, Quinn," she says, her voice raspy, faltering with your mouth on her pulse point. She takes your hand from her breast and pushes it under her dress. "Take me."

And you do it, two fingers inside her in an empty Colombian street, pressing your body against hers to give you both some balance.

She's tight and hot and way too _wet_ already; you muffle a groan in her neck as you thrust, hard and deep and demanding, listening to her chanting your name over and over and over again.

—

It's so dirty and good and right, spreading herself open for Quinn's fingers, touching herself as Quinn fucks her brains out and takes ownership of her body so completely.

She comes abruptly around Quinn's fingers with a quiet, desperate sound and she bites Quinn's shoulder to hold back the tears, whimpering when Quinn pulls out.

She sees it all now – she understands Quinn and their past and her mind has never been clearer, sharper.

Quinn's breath is shallow, and her eyes are unreadable again. "Leave." Rachel opens her mouth to argue, but Quinn is already taking a step back and fixing her hair. "I'll ask someone to take you to a hotel."

Her head is spinning, she doesn't understand. "Can I see you again?"

Quinn shakes her head, unattainable once more. "I don't know."

Rachel holds back the tears until she's safely inside her hotel room.


	4. Waiting

This is it for now, lovelies. I'd suggest you **subscribe** so you won't miss if I decide to add more to it! :) (There might be more coming your way.)

* * *

**WAITING**

She waits.

She knows she overstepped every single boundary, so she waits.

It turns out Bogotá is really lovely, and almost no one recognizes her.

-.-.-

You can't really focus, can you?

Your photos are technically perfect, but they lack the warmth and the drive that are associated with your work. You give up on the second day, because what's the point? Amnesty International is much too satisfied with you to complain anyway.

You touch yourself at night.

You can still smell Rachel, listen to her panting so desperately by your ear, having her pressed against you.

-.-.-

On the fourth day her phone rings.

Rachel's voice is already shaking when you mumble a "let her in", walking over to the mirror to check her clothes, her face, the bags under her eyes.

_This is it_, she thinks as she opens the door.

Quinn is standing there, white button up shirt and oxford shoes, heavy black bag on her shoulder, face devoid of expression. "What are you still doing here?"

She locks eyes with Quinn, trying to read her reaction. "I'm waiting for you."

Quinn's jaw tenses and she steps forward, dropping her purse on the table by the door with a loud thud. "Fuck you, Rachel," she says, and the sole of her feet are pushing the door behind her, closing it with a dull click.

-.-.-

You clash your body against her because she's driving you crazy with mixed signals, looking at you like she wants something without ever telling you what she actually means, grabbing your shirt and pulling your closer and offering her neck to your open mouth.

You draw a whimper out of her as you take a long lick on the curve of her neck, and then another one after you suck the spot beneath her ear.

You want to make her feel something, _anything_ close to your desperation and your loneliness; your teeth pull and your tongue swirls and she holds on to you close.

"I told you to fuck off," you say, pulling her up harshly, enjoying more than you should when those thighs lock around your waist and soft brown hair cascades over you.

Her nails make a way up your upper back, hurting and leaving a path of angry red marks for you to remember her. She claims your lips, grabbing your face and taking over your mouth, rubbing your tongues together, sucking on your lower lip and demanding entrance again.

"You can't avoid me forever," she says angrily, hips rolling against yours and the heel of her feet sinking in your ass to pull you closer.

She wins everything else, she got everything she ever wanted and you had to run and hide to make yourself whole again; you need to keep an upper hand on this, the only thing you can control.

You throw her on the bed.

-.-.-

She's always going to give Quinn everything she wants; she happily submits to the hot tongue on her neck and the insistent bites on her collarbone.

It's only when Quinn throws her on the bed unceremoniously and climbs over her body, breath ragged and cheeks flushed, that she realizes how much she wants this:

Quinn hovering over her on all fours, licking her lips, running a hand up Rachel's body like she owns it, the prelude of something—

Rachel grabs that soft golden hair and pulls Quinn down, groaning when Quinn collapses on top of her and kisses her very open-mouthed.

Her hands work furiously on that stupid dress shirt, buttoned all the way up for no good reason; the soft sigh she takes from Quinn when her hands palm a lean stomach is exactly what she needs.

Quinn's biceps ripple and tense as she tears Rachel's blouse apart and her mouth latches on to her breasts, and it shouldn't be this arousing but Rachel is already getting _so_ wet.

It's slower, this time, and she pushes Quinn's shirt off her shoulder so she can scratch her back and palm her shoulders to keep her right _there_, settled on top of her, grounding her to the world and making her feel something for the first time in so long.

"Fuck, babe—" She gasps when Quinn bites her nipple, tongue swirling over it before another bite, "yes, just like that—"

They grind together on accident the first time and moan in unison, Quinn's tongue still working on the other breast.

She's covered in saliva and love bites and it's the most glorious thing she's ever felt in her life.

-.-.-

Doesn't she know how deep it sinks when she calls you _babe_?

Is she really this blind? You tug her shorts down harsher than necessary, trying not to stare at how her hair falls on the pillow and frames her face.

Your fingers delve in her folds, spreading the wetness; she throws her head back, throat straining in a low growl. "You're such a slut." You tease her entrance, enjoying how her hips raise for more. "Begging for a good fuck."

"Please, Quinn, please," she mumbles, "I need you so much, I—"

"Don't say things you don't actually mean." You thrust three fingers in because you know she can take it, and fuck if her moan isn't the best thing you've ever heard, if this isn't the most alive you've ever felt.

She's tugging your hair and it hurts, but you don't give a shit as long as she's moaning your name over and over again.

"Fucking take me, Quinn," she moans right in your ear, biting your shoulder. "Take what you want."

You choke a little, stopping your fingers inside her. "I want everything, Rachel," you say as your thumb presses down on her clit, circling, "everything."

Your arm is aching and your wrist isn't in the best position, but you're going to make her come as hard as she can.

"Fuck, Quinn, fuck—" her hips jerk uncontrollably, the tips of her fingers pressing down on your back as she finally tops over and comes all over your hand.

She can _feel_ herself throbbing against Quinn's fingers.

God, she can't even breathe right now. Quinn kisses her, slow and demanding, moving her hand slowly in and out; she whimpers helplessly with aftershocks and bites Quinn's lower lip.

Her voice sounds abnormally raspy when she holds Quinn's wrist and makes her pull out. "Babe, I can't take any—"

"Don't call me that," Quinn says, rolling over to the side.

She can't even get a fuckin nickname right, can she?

So much for pillow talk. She turns to her side and looks at Quinn. "I don't know what to do to get it right."

Quinn sighs. "Me neither."


End file.
